War in the North Part I: The Black Wardens
by RiddleofStrider
Summary: An elite guild of assassins known as the Black Wardens uncover a plot set in motion by an ancient and powerful force. As the Inquisition's war against Corypheus rages on, the Black Wardens must stand against this new threat, or all of Thedas may be lost regardless of whether or not the Inquisition succeeds.
1. Table for Three

**Table for Three**

 _It was an easy choice, really: Conscription into the Grey Wardens or the hangman's noose for murdering a noble right here in Denerim. Murder they called it…couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. But staring across that field at a horde of Darkspawn, I almost wished I had gone for the noose. I watched the King of Ferelden die. I watched the Warden Commander die. I watched as the soldiers of the heroic Loghain Mac Tir heroically quit the field. After that, I didn't stay to watch any more. I ran as fast and as far as my legs would carry me, but apparently fate had a hard on for me and threw me into the company of two more unlikely survivors of Ostagar; Caoilainn Cousland and Alistair Theirin._

 _The rest was a story fit for a fracking fairy tale. The triumphant defeat of the Archdemon by an unlikely band of rag-tag heroes, the ascension of King Alistair Theirin, long may he reign, his wedding to the beautiful Caoilainn Cousland, and the rebirth of the Ferelden Grey Wardens. Lovely sodding tale if ever there was one. Except you see, I have a problem with authority (I don't much care for it), and I have a problem with violence (apparently I care for it a tad too much), and I definitely, definitely, had a problem with our new Warden Commander: Caoilainn Cousland…or Queen Caoilainn Theirin? Before I could be brought up to speed on which titles were appropriate, she drummed me out of the Wardens. She said it was because I told her to go plough herself, but I think the real reason was that she found out I ran at Ostagar. Can't say as I blame her for that, but some of us weren't friends with giant eagles or whatever the hell plucked her and King Al from that tower._

 _So what's a disgraced Grey Warden with a penchant for violence and no marketable skills do when he finds himself with no line of work? I'll tell you. He hooks up with his old mate from the Blight, who happens to be formerly of the Antivan Crows. (Yes, that's him. That blonde-haired, tall glass of water sitting to my left. Don't let the charming smile and dreamy accent fool you: He'll gut you as soon as bed you. Actually, he'll probably do both). What's that? Oh, you've never heard of the Antivan Crows? Well lets suffice it to say that they're an organization that makes problems go away. So my friend and I, we go into the problem-disappearing business for ourselves. And you know what? We're good at it. So good we start getting a reputation for ourselves. So good we start attracting recruits. So good we even get our own name: The Black Wardens. Cheeky, right? And yes, the name's meant to evoke a bit of a dark parallel. But what was I saying…oh right, we're so good that the aforementioned Antivan Crows don't much care for the newfound competition, so they put a mark out on us. Those three blokes over at that table are here to collect, but not a one of em is gonna walk out of here alive. Because we are so, so good. By the way, the name's Feanor, this here is Zevran. Nice to meet you, now might be a good time to duck out of here…_

The Antivan Crows were supposed to be the best. They weren't. Not these three anyway. Feanor put a dagger right between one's eyes from halfway across the room before any of them even moved. The second managed to get to his feet before Zevran impaled him. The third was actually able to draw his own weapon…before promptly dropping it and racing for the back door. Feanor watched with amusement as the door burst open right before the hapless would-be assassin reached it, and a black-fletched arrow seemed to sprout from his chest. The Crow looked at it dumbly, then at the cloaked figure standing in the doorway before slumping to the floor. The whole bloody business had taken less than thirty seconds.

"Rookies," Zevran said dismissively with a shake of his head. He was already wiping the blood from his sword off on his victim's tunic. Feanor shot his friend an askance grin as he casually walked across the room and wrenched his dagger from between the still open eyes of the dead man slumped against the wall.

"You always told me the Crows beat the 'rookie' out of you before you even touched the hilt of a dagger."

"Well yes generally, that is the rule of thumb," Zevran said. "But comparatively speaking, these three were definitely rookies. As in they survived the initial beatings, got to hold their daggers, and then…well here we are."

Feanor laughed as he and Zev sheathed their weapons and began patting down the dead men for anything of value, specifically anything that pointed to the origin of this latest hit order. Feanor wasn't hopeful. The Crows may have been sending green boys after them thus far, but their leadership was always careful to cover their tracks. The cyphers and codes that had been in use back in Zevran's day had long since been changed. As Feanor and Zev finished up their quick search, the third man in their party closed the door behind him, regarded the man lying on the floor with an arrow in his chest for a moment before nocking another and shooting it point blank into the dead man's genitals.

"Maker's breathe, Alderas!" Feanor said throwing his hands up in the air. "What did I tell you about that weird crack!?"

The archer pulled back the hood of his cloak, revealing the smiling face of a handsome young Elf with long chestnut brown hair. The giddy look on the youth's face belied the gruesome act he had just committed.

"What? It's my thing. You know, my calling card."

Zevran shook his head. "Your choice of a calling card is macabre and disturbing my young friend, you should reconsider it."

Alderas looked at Zevran with genuine confusion. "Why? The guy's already dead. Not like he's going to be using it."

"You are entirely missing the point, Alderas," Zevran said with an exasperated sigh.

"The point being?"

"The point being that you don't shoot a dead guy in his sodding bits!" Feanor yelled. "We're professionals here, and that kind of chicken shite just isn't done! Tell him Zev!"

"It's true. It just isn't done. You can shoot, stab, slice or gouge anyone anywhere while they're alive, but once they're dead, you don't touch the bits." Zevran shrugged. "I don't make up the rules, I just follow them."

Feanor nodded in satisfaction and folded his arms across his chest as if Zevran's commentary was law on the matter. Alderas pouted and rolled his eyes while slinging his bow across his back. "Fine," he said, "I'm gonna have to come up with another calling card." He strolled casually into the center of the room, looking at each of the dead men in turn as he did so. "Don't suppose these ones turned up anything useful either?"

Feanor jingled a purse of silver coins, the only thing of worth that had turned up on the Crows, and shook his head. "Same old lot of nothing," he said. "Coins and Crow cyphers, nothing we can make heads or tails of."

The three elves looked at each other for a few moments, worry beginning to show on their faces. Zevran finally broke the uneasy silence, "Pretty soon they're going to start sending more seasoned blades after us, and this could get ugly rather quickly."

"I'm hoping that's a lead in to some brilliant and/or dastardly plan," Feanor said.

"Well, next time the Crows send someone after us, perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to…I don't know…take one alive?"

Feanor raised a skeptical eyebrow, "The Crows don't talk. What do you expect to get from them?"

Zevran's normally cheerful and relaxed demeanor shifted ever so slightly to something darker, and his voice tinged with a coldness that seemed unnatural and alien coming from him. "I used to be a Crow. I know how to make them talk."

Feanor and Alderas exchanged glances. Deep down, Zevran was a predator, but rare were the moments he showed his true colors. His companions both knew that whenever good old Zev went dark, a rabid Mabari was less dangerous by comparison. Feanor nodded slowly before answering. He himself had never been averse to torture as a means to a justifiable end, a character trait which during the Blight had often put him at odds with Ferelden's oh-so-righteous future monarchs. But even he shuddered to think of whatever Zev had in store for the next Crow who drew the short straw to come after them. "Alright. We take one alive and see where that leads us. Now unless anyone wants to leave anymore calling cards, let's get the hell out of here before this dump happens to get another patron." Feanor, Zevran and Alderas pulled their hoods over their heads and ventured out the front door into the night. As Feanor passed the bar, he paused to wink and shoot a sadistic grin at the innkeeper cowering on the floor behind it. "No offense."


	2. Beneath Denerim

**Chapter 2: Beneath Denerim**

Underneath the bustling streets of Denerim lay an immense network of tunnels and caverns, some man-made and some natural, that composed the city's extremely complex sewage and irrigation system. Water runoff trickled down grates and manholes into the catacombs and collected into large pools to be pumped back out into the fields of the city's many surrounding farms. The tunnel system had been a perpetual work in progress for hundreds of years, each generation adding new passageways and aqueducts as older ones fell into disrepair, disuse, or were simply forgotten. It was amidst these older passageways and secluded caves that the Black Wardens of Denerim made their home. One wrong turn and a man could get lost down there forever, but Feanor and Zevran had begun mapping the underground labyrinth nearly ten years ago, and now every Black Warden knew each twist and turn by heart.

 _I know what you're thinking. Really, I do. "If you all are doing so well, why are you living in a sewer?" Well, come sit under my learning tree. You're a smug idiot if you think people in our line of work are too good to hold up in sewers and, like you, most people are smug idiots. These passages run for literally hundreds of miles in every direction, and if you know them, which we do, you have literally hundreds of spots throughout the city you can pop in and out of completely unexpected. And vice versa, if you don't know them, which you don't, and recall here that most people are exactly like you, you will get lost down here. And you will die, but probably not before the rats start eating you. But what really makes it bearable is the fact that we're rich. Really rich. Rich enough to make even a cistern in a sewer look like an arl's palace. Trust me, I've been in several in my day. And the smell? Well you get used to that quicker than you'd think. It's mostly just water run-off down here anyway. Mostly. Now close your eyes, because we've reached the point where if you see which way I turn next, I'll have to kill you. Wouldn't want that, would we?_

The three elves emerged from the tunnels into a massive natural cavern as big as any noble's great hall and furnished with just as many amenities. Alcoves carved into the walls served as quarters for each of the cell's members, and the cavern proper was lit by clusters of luminescent crystals and provided ample space for training and lounging about. Feanor let down his hood and tossed his rain-soaked cloak aside, collapsing gratefully into one of many padded chairs at the communal table after what had been several long days hunting the Crow hit squad. He looked so innocent lounging in that chair, slight of build even by elven standards with a meticulously clean-shaven head, his dark hair never growing longer than a fine stubble. His face was truly beautiful, with full lips and a perfect nose that had miraculously never been broken, and features that might have been considered delicate if not for the perpetually hardened expression he had mastered over the years. His alabaster skin was crisscrossed with intricate facial tattoos in the Dalish style. Feanor was not Dalish, but his family had taken up the practice of the Vallaslin generations ago. They thickened considerably around his eyes, accentuating what was by far his most stunning feature: Eyes the color of polished emeralds that seemed to glow when the light hit them just right.

But looking at those eyes long enough, a perceptive person would notice how cold, distant, and haunted they seemed. Once they noticed that, maybe they would notice that when those full lips curled into a smile, it was usually either sinister or devoid of mirth. Perhaps they would notice that the tattoos on his face extended down his neck under his collar, but they would not know that on his arms those tattoos wound into thorn-covered vines, or that each of those thorns represented a life Feanor had taken. They would not know why he religiously shaved his head; that he had begun the practice years ago after seeing an Ogre grab a man by his long hair and rip his head clean off his shoulders. But maybe, just maybe, upon recognizing a few unsettling details about Feanor, a perceptive person would also recognize that his lithe frame was all muscle and sinew wound tight as a spring. That his hands were calloused and hard as stones. That under his cloak he always wore strange drakeskin armor, light as leather and hard as steel. Maybe they would spy the handles of one or more of the dozen daggers and knives he kept on his person at all times. Maybe, just maybe they would recognize the kind of person Feanor was. But only if they looked at his brilliant green eyes long enough.

 _If you haven't figured it out already, let's get clear on one thing: We're not the 'good guys.' We kill people for money, the absolute antithesis of 'good guys.' That doesn't mean we don't have some sense of morality though, we're not the Crows. We don't go around offing children and Chantry Sisters for bloated landlords and spoiled princelings. In fact, all of our targets in some way fall into the same category as 'bloated landlords and spoiled princelings.' Which is to say, they deserve what they get. Granted, our employers sometimes deserve the same or worse, but name me one business in which associating with unsavory characters doesn't come with the territory and I'll eat a live Nug. Besides, the beauty of it all is that given time, our unsavory employers eventually end up as targets themselves. It's a beautiful system, it's why we do what we do, because someone has to do it._

As Feanor reclined in his chair, a large human male walked over with two mugs of steaming spiced wine in his hands, sat across from Feanor and slid one of the mugs over to him. Feanor nodded his thanks and took a sip, savoring the warmth that immediately spread to his limbs. The human was Quinn, and at fifty years old he was still as spry as a man half his age and the strongest human Feanor had ever met. He was built like a bear with broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and limbs as thick as tree branches. Feanor had once seen him snap a man's spine just by squeezing him. Quinn had salt and pepper hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and a perpetual five o'clock shadow. What was most intimidating about him though was not his size, but his one empty eye socket covered by a patch of seared scar tissue that even Feanor found hard to look at, and he had seen some ugly shite in his day. Quinn knew the effect it had on people, which was why he chose not to wear an eyepatch and made a show of leering at whoever he was talking to out of his one still functioning eye.

 _Quinn's story is pretty well representative of all Black Wardens. You see whereas the Crows buy or steal kids to shape into weapons, we take recruits who have been sharpened into weapons by life. And they have a way of finding us. Take Quinn for example, I actually met him years ago. He was born in the Free Marches and was a huntsman for some minor noble. The noble had several daughters, one of whom took a liking to Quinn, and he to her. One day they weren't being quite careful enough and got caught tumbling in the hay. The kind-hearted noble made Quinn watch as he had his daughter flogged, and then he shipped off to some remote Chantry to live out her days in penance for loving a mere commoner. Then he put Quinn's eye out with a hot poker and sentenced him to ten years in a penal silverite mine. After he got out, he moved to Ferelden and bounced around from one band of mercenaries to another for a few years. During the Blight, the people of Redcliffe hired the crew he was riding with at the time to protect the town when things started going all weird there. After one night of the dead coming after them, the whole merc band ran away. All except for Quinn, he stayed and fought, and that was where we met. After that I'm not sure what he did, but a few years ago when the Black was just starting to gain a real reputation, we were contracted to off a merchant smuggling lyrium-infused drugs. We ambushed the merchant's caravan on the road, and once the arrows started flying and a few of the hired guards dropped, the rest ran off. All except for one: big old Quinn. He remembered Zev and me from Redcliffe, and we remembered him. We offered him a chance to join us, he agreed. The merchant smuggler was Quinn's first kill as a Black Warden. The second was the noble that put out his eye nearly twenty years prior._

Feanor nodded toward one of the alcoves where a dwarf was bent over a large table covered in bottles and parchment, mumbling to himself as he jotted down notes on a scroll. While still stocky by most standards, he was rather thin for his race and eschewed the usual elaborate beard sported by most dwarven men for a clean shaven face. His ashy-blonde, cropped hair looked to be in need of a good washing. His grey eyes were bloodshot and had dark circles under them, and the small tattoo identifying him as casteless stood out in stark contrast to the dwarf's too-pale skin.

"How many days straight has he been awake this time?" Feanor asked Quinn.

The big man looked over at Brecca the dwarf and shrugged, "Three I think."

Feanor sighed and shook his head. Brecca had a bad habit of losing track of time when he got caught up in his work, which was often. "What's he working on now?" he asked.

"Who knows," Quinn said. "The same scary stuff he's always working on. Probably some new way to make dying quicker, slower, or more painful than needed."

"You need to get better at dragging him away from that table from time to time when Zev and I aren't around," Feanor said, "Maker knows what the fumes from all that junk are doing to him."

Quinn harrumphed and spat. "Not like I don't try, you know how he gets though. If I even manage to pry his fingers off those bottles and tubes, he's right back at em five minutes later. You need to take him out more. Give him something to do other than skulk around here obsessing over potions."

Feanor sighed and nodded. He knew Quinn was right, but really didn't like the thought of giving Brecca anything dangerous to do. The dwarf just wasn't cut out for field work. Feanor called to Brecca and waved him over to the table. Brecca looked up, blinked, and smiled when he recognized Feanor. He stood up and swayed for a moment, stretched his back and blinked again, as if surprised by how stiff his muscles were. He walked around the pool in the center of the cavern and pulled a chair up to the table. He looked at Quinn as if just noticing the big man was there and smiled meekly at him. Quinn chuckled and got up from the table, returning a moment later with another mug of wine and a bottle. Brecca cupped the mug in both hands, his tiny smile turning into a broad grin.

"Thanks Quinn," he said. Quinn nodded and patted Brecca's shoulder.

"Whatchya been up to these past few days, Brecca?" Feanor asked. The dwarf's pallid face visibly brightened at the question.

"Oh! You'll like it!" Brecca said excitedly, "It's a construct of Deep Mushroom extract and the venom from a certain breed of sea snake, with a few other minor ingredients. One drop is enough to paralyze a full grown horse for hours!" Brecca took a sip of his drink and frowned thoughtfully, "If I can just get the damn measurements right," he muttered.

"Well maybe you'd be able to think straighter if you slept for a couple hours," Feanor said like a parent chiding a child.

Brecca shot Quinn an accusing glare before looking back at Feanor with a penitent expression. "But you'll really like this one Feanor! It'll be so useful when it's done!"

"I know it will, Brecca," Feanor said sympathetically, "But it won't be worth it if you drop dead from exhaustion while you're making it. Get some sleep tonight, that's an order."

Brecca looked so absolutely crestfallen it actually panged Feanor a little bit. "I hate sleeping," Brecca mumbled into his mug. Feanor had to stifle a sigh, Brecca really did hate sleeping. Dwarves didn't dream, and something about the blackness of sleep frightened Brecca. It was undoubtedly a symptom of neuroses, but Feanor wasn't one to judge. None of them were entirely straight in the head, after all.

 _Brecca is the most physically unimposing individual I've ever met, but he's a genius alchemist. Not just poisons - although he has a fascination with them that is frankly a bit disturbing - but poultices, stamina draughts, aphrodisiacs, you name it. We found him a couple years back just kind of wandering around Denerim, selling vials out of his coat pockets. I didn't give him a second glance, but Zev felt bad for the little bugger and bought a few silvers worth of his product. I won't tell you what it was, but it worked really, really well. Mind you, Brecca was a pauper at this point, so he didn't even have access to quality ingredients. He just made this stuff from whatever he could scrounge up. We kept going back to him and eventually offered him a spot as the Black Wardens' resident alchemist. At first it was a bit of a charity case I'll admit, but over time he became a genuine Brother as we learned more of his story. Brecca was born casteless in Orzamar, which is just about the crappiest circumstance a person can be born into. And I say that having grown up in an alienage, so I know crappy when I see it. He had it better than most casteless though. He had a loving family who didn't have to resort to crime or worse because his father was a brilliant alchemist himself, that's where Brecca gets it. His old man's reputation was so amazing he actually attracted the patronage of a noble, which ended up being a curse, not a blessing. The noble family which patronized Brecca's father's alchemy shop was in the middle of a feud with another noble house, so when these rivals found out that Brecca's dad was "supplying" their enemies, they burned their shop and house to the ground. Killed Brecca's father, mother, and two siblings. The only reason Brecca survived was because he was out running errands. He came back to find his home destroyed and his whole family dead in the street. People walked right on by them as if nothing was amiss, just another day in Dust Town. After a few years of begging in Orzamar, Brecca made his way to the surface. How he survived as long as he did is a mystery to me, but fate brought him to us and even though he can't fight worth a damn, he's an integral member of our brotherhood. Death doesn't always come by a blade or an arrow, sometimes it comes from a clear, tasteless liquid mixed in with your mead. That's how death came to the noble that ordered Brecca's family killed._

Zevran and Alderas returned from their respective quarters and joined their other comrades. Three elves, a dwarf, and a human sat chatting amiably for a while before talk turned to business.

"So I take it you found that Crow hit squad?" Quinn asked as he poured himself a fresh mug. Feanor nodded.

"They did not make themselves too difficult to find, or too difficult to kill. I imagine that will change in the very near future," said Zevran.

Brecca shook his head in amazement, "That's what now, three in the past two months? Why do they have such a hard on for us? It's not like we ever did anything to them."

"Yeah, except kill all twelve of the guys they sent after us," Alderas said with a maniacal chuckle.

"That's my point," Brecca said, "Guys that they sent after us. They started it!"

"They started it? This isn't Chantry school rough housing, little man," Quinn scowled. "They know we're better than them and they don't like it."

"We should take the fight to them," Alderas said with enthusiasm, "Call all of our cells together and hit them where they live! Right in the bits!"

Feanor and Zevran looked at each other and chuckled. "What did we tell you about the bits? Stop it," said Zevran with a small grin.

Quinn raised the eyebrow of his one good eye and made a disgusted sound, "Still shooting dead guys below the belt, huh?"

"Not anymore apparently," Alderas said with obvious frustration.

"Good, it's weird," said Quinn, "Besides, everyone knows that kind of junk just isn't done, kid,"

"That's what we told him," Feanor said.

"Even I know that," Brecca chuckled.

Alderas frowned and rested his chin on his folded arms as the other four men laughed at his expense. "Honestly," said Zevran, "It really is bizarre. I shudder to think what about it…does it for you."

 _I have a theory about that. Alderas was born a slave – sorry, a "servant" - in Orlais. When he was maybe seven he walked in on his master's son taking liberties with his mother. Forcibly. Alderas jumped on this prick's back and started beating on him. Well, young master didn't take too kindly to that, so he started kicking the living crack out of Alderas. His mother grabbed a millet grinder and brained him, knocked him out cold. Then they made a run for it because she knew what this meant if they stuck around. They got a mile, maybe two into the woods before the hounds were sent after them. They didn't make it much farther. Alderas' mom got him up into a tree before the hounds got to her. He watched as they ripped her to shreds. The hunting party circled the tree Alderas was in for a couple hours, lobbing arrows and spears at him before they left. Apparently the life of a kid wasn't worth missing dinner over, probably figured he'd die in the woods anyway. He stayed up there a full day before climbing down and burying what was left of his mom. Some Dalish found him lying on the shallow grave half starved to death a few days later and took him in. He lived with them for a few years, but this was one of those passive clans, and as Alderas got older it became clear that he had a thing for fighting and killing humans. Can't really blame him, can you? So when he was old enough the clan just kind of asked him to leave, and he obliged. That was a little over two years ago. The clan had trained him as a hunter, so stealth and skill with a bow came as naturally to him as breathing. And he never forgot where he came from. The nobleman's son was by now the nobleman, and Alderas made his way back to the hold, climbed into the bed chamber, and avenged his mother. Zev and I just happened to come through the same window a few minutes later to find Chevalier frack-face with one arrow between his eyes and one in his dangles. Alderas was hiding in a cabinet. Good work is good work, and he was obviously a kindred spirit, so we asked him on. Since he said yes, we still got to collect the bounty. We gave it to Alderas, and he used it to build a proper cairn over his mom's grave. It took a while for Alderas to warm up to Quinn. Not believing all humans are inherently evil is a relatively new development for him, and one I empathize with._

 _Are you sensing a pattern here? Because there is one. Quinn, Alderas, and Brecca, they all have similar stories. Zev and I…well, our stories kind of share aspects with all three. Most of it's a well well-known tale of which we play minor roles, so I'll spare you the intricate details. Mostly because I don't feel like talking about it right now. ._

 _We aren't really assassins, the Crows are assassins, and we're executioners. If you think there's no difference you'd be in the majority, but you'd still be wrong. We execute people who have committed crimes and believe they are above justice, and we take money for what we do so we can keep doing it. We have enough coin in our coffers for every one of us to retire and live like arls, but we don't. Know why? Because some people need to die. If you are one of those people, I promise that sooner or later we will come for you, and we will send you to whatever Maker you wish. There are hundreds of us in a dozen cities, and every single one of us has a story like Quinn's, Brecca's, Zevran's, Alderas', and mine._

 _But I'm sure none of them have a story like hers._

"Has she said anything today?" Alderas asked.

"Not a word," Brecca replied in a hushed voice.

The five men at the table collectively looked to the far wall of the cavern at the copper-skinned qunari woman sitting cross legged, staring expressionless into the pool. The scars of the removed stitches were still fresh around her lips and stood out red and raw even from a distance. They were all in awe of her, even Feanor. How could they not be? Feanor had encountered all kinds of things in his life that were unbelievable. None came close to the Saarebas sitting across the cavern: A mage of the Qun, one that had escaped her own people. Feanor regarded her for a moment longer before returning his attention to the others.

"Give her time," he said, "She will speak when she is ready."


	3. A Guilty Conscience

**Chapter 3: A Guilty Conscience**

Zevran lay on the soft bed propped up by several pillows, his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling. One of the woman's arms was draped across his bare chest, and her pretty face was nestled in the crook of his neck. She breathed softly and rhythmically, deep in sleep. Zevran had already forgotten her name. By tomorrow he would forget what she looked like, her face would be just one in a number of conquests that swirled around in his memories like wisps without form or substance.

 _I'm getting too old for this,_ he thought sullenly.

He was still in what many would consider the prime of his life, but Zevran Arainai felt old beyond his years nonetheless. Every time he looked in a mirror he noticed a few more lines around his eyes, a few more strands of white in his golden hair. He moved just a little bit slower with each successive fight, and took just a little bit longer to recover afterward. The lust and vigor with which he had pursued life slackened more and more with each passing year, and he often found himself preoccupied with thoughts of his own end, and questions of what it all meant. Most of all, he was tired, so very tired.

The Blight had changed him in ways that he never could have imagined as a younger man. He had grown up surrounded by death, violence, and pain. The Crows had beaten into his mind that all of those things were just abstractions that needed to be endured, not pondered. His time with the heroes of Ferelden during the Blight had ripped those preconceptions from his mind with a force that had shocked him to the very core of his being. For the first time in his life, he had realized that his actions had deep and profound consequences not only for himself and the people around him, but potentially for the entire world. In the loneliness of the wilds and the dark of the Deep Roads, it dawned on him that he was not a leaf blowing in the wind, he had a choice. He was a killer, a living weapon, and nothing he could do would ever change that. But he could change what he did, he could choose to have a cause, to stand for something greater than himself. He could have a purpose. It had been over quiet campfire chats with Feanor that Zevran had come to realize what that meant. He had always felt like an outsider to the other members of the party. They looked at him and saw nothing more than what the Crows wanted him to be: A weapon, albeit a beautiful and charming one. When Feanor looked at him, he saw a person.

It was a simple thing, to be treated like a person and not an object, but it was the first time anyone had done so since the mother he had lost as a child. To this day Zevran didn't know what Feanor had seen in him, or why the two had bonded in the way they had. Maybe it was because Feanor was also an outcast, mistrusted and looked down upon. Perhaps they gravitated toward each other simply because they had no one else. Whatever the reason, Zevran cherished Feanor more than any person he had ever met, and he hoped that someday he would be able to find the right words to tell him.

 _Someday,_ he thought, _just not today._

Like everyone who had lived through the Fifth Blight, Zevran had witnessed horrible things. When it was finally over he walked away with the disturbing feeling that not all of those horrible things had been caused by the darkspawn. Some of them, many of them in fact, had been caused by people. People that spread suffering and despair, people that crushed and took lives at their own pleasure and discretion with no thought at all of the pain it caused others. People that killed without hesitation or remorse with barely a second thought for the blood they spilled. People that murdered innocents, friends, even loved ones.

People like him.

The realization that he was a villain planted a dagger of grief deep in Zevran's heart, a grief that was shared by Feanor. In the name of stopping the Blight, Feanor had done things that the others could not bring themselves to do, and he had done them with a cold and calculated precision that made him seem devoid of conscience. Of all their companions, only Zevran knew the weight of the remorse Feanor carried. To stop the enemy, he had become something he hated, and he had done so willingly.

When it was done, Feanor and Zevran found themselves alone with their guilt. No songs were sung in their praise, no toasts were raised to their names. They had only each other and the shadows they called home. In those shadows they made a choice, to atone for their sins the only way they knew how: By killing people like them. They would cure the disease of which the Crows were merely a symptom. Their initial hit list had been comprised almost entirely of people that Zevran knew personally. That was why they were at war with his former brethren now, it was not as simple and mundane as mere competition. The Black Wardens wanted to create a world in which they were no longer necessary, and organizations like the Antivan Crows could not even survive. They all knew that world was impossible, that for every head they cut off two more seemed to grow in its place. But they would keep hacking away at those heads as long as they drew breathe, if for no other reason than that they had chosen and sworn to do so.

Zevran gently removed the woman's arm from his chest and got out of the bed quietly, so as not to disturb her sleep. He stretched his arms over his head and made his way across the elaborately furnished room, one of several in the city's more upscale taverns he perpetually rented out under various aliases. He would spend a night or two in one of these rooms whenever the opportunity presented itself, and he rarely spent them alone.

 _But never with the person I would prefer to be spending them with_ , he thought sadly, casting a glance at the woman still sleeping peacefully in the bed. When she woke up tomorrow Zevran would already be gone, either to another tavern under a different name or back to the cave. She would likely never see him again, and if she did, Zevran knew he would have only the vaguest recollection of her and brush her off with his characteristic charm. He felt a pang of guilt over that, as he always did, but those were the least of the sins he had to contend with. He poured himself a glass of water from a pitcher, wrapped a blanket around his waist, opened the window of the room and stared out across Denerim's skyline. The sun had just set and the city was bathed in its residual orange glow.

 _Beautiful,_ Zevran thought. A cool breeze blew through the open window, prickling the skin on his naked arms and torso. He closed his eyes and savored the sensation, losing himself in a moment of peace.

The arrow whizzed by his face so close that Zevran could feel its feathers brush against his cheek. He dropped into a crouch and pressed himself against the wall, grabbing a dagger stashed under the windowsill. He stayed perfectly still for a few moments before stalking toward the door, being careful to stay under the archer's line of sight. He grabbed a second dagger from under the table and positioned himself up against the doorframe. Every muscle in his body tensed as he listened for the sound of boots outside the door, ready to lash out with his twin blades the second it was kicked in. But it wasn't kicked in. The hallway outside was totally silent save for the sounds of revelry drifting up from the common room below. Zevran tore his gaze away from the door toward where the arrow had planted itself in the wall, and he noticed that there was a small scroll wrapped around the shaft. Still keeping low, Zevran slid along the wall toward the arrow, wrenched it from the wood and unrolled the parchment. His eyebrows arched in surprise as he read it over several times. Slowly he stood up straight, exposing himself to the open window. He closed his eyes for a moment, half expecting another arrow to bury itself in his chest, but nothing happened. He walked silently as a cat to the open window and leaned out of it, scanning the nearby rooftops for any sign of the archer. Seeing none, he closed and latched the window and pulled the drapes shut. In the darkness he quietly and urgently pulled on his armor and weapons. He had to get back to the cavern. Now.

The woman's eyes fluttered open and she breathed in deep before letting out a long, contented sigh. She felt amazing, satisfied in a way she never dreamed possible. She reached out with her hand to stroke her lover's chest, but it fell on an empty mattress. Perplexed, she sat up and looked around the room, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the darkness. Once they did, she felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She was alone.


	4. Soldier of Faith

**Chapter 4: Soldier of Faith**

Quinn knelt on one knee in the candlelit hall of Denerim's Chantry, his head bowed and hands folded, his lips moving ever so slightly as he recited the Canticle of Andraste:

"Eyes sorrow-blinded in darkness unbroken, there upon the mountain a voice answered my call. 'Heart that is broken beats still unceasing, an ocean of sorrow does nobody drown. You have forgotten, spear-maiden of Alamarr, within my creation none are alone.'"

He knew the entire Chant of Light by heart, his parents had been extremely religious and had raised their son to follow their example. As a young man, Quinn continued to pay lip service to the Maker and his Prophet mostly out of respect for his parents, but he never had the conviction in his heart that they had. Once they passed away, it was not long before he drifted away from the Chantry completely. He had better things to do with his time than mumble empty words to a faceless god. But that was before his world ended, before he found himself bound between two posts watching his beloved Tessa writhe and scream under the unforgiving lashes of the whip. Quinn had cursed and raged and frothed at the mouth. He had wept and begged his master to show mercy, but that cold hearted man knew nothing of mercy, not even for his own daughter. Quinn still choked up every time he recalled the image of Tessa's blood and tear stained face as she was dragged from the yard. That had been the last he ever saw of her, and it had broken his heart.

Then came the physical pain, pain the likes of which he never dared imagine a man could experience and survive. And after the pain came the darkness, deep in the bowels of the earth. The unending swing of a pickaxe in his hands, the ever present threat of the overseer's whip slashing down at the slightest hint of faltering. Ten years. Ten years which seemed like an eternity living in a grave, a walking dead man. Quinn had experienced hell in the flesh, and it was in hell that he found his faith. At first rage drove him to survive, then his ego and spite, then determination, and finally just a blind animalistic instinct to keep pushing forward. Eventually they all ran out, everything he had turned to for strength abandoned him. It was in that hour of his deepest despair, curled in the darkness and wishing for death that the Chant of Light returned to him. There in that pit for the first time in his life, Quinn said the words and meant them.

The Chant gave him a strength he did not know he possessed, solace he did not know he could achieve. The pickaxe seemed suddenly to weigh nothing at all, the whips of the guards felt like mere feathers falling on his back. And so Quinn kept saying the words, reciting the Chant over and over until the day he was finally released from the mines. He breathed in deep the free air, not knowing what he would do or where he would go, and he put his trust in the Maker.

The words carried him across the Waking Sea to Ferelden, they gave him the courage to stand firm against the dead at Redcliffe and the darkspawn at Denerim. Years later, the Chant of Light was on his lips when he found himself on his knees with a blade to his neck, certain his life was about to end. But it didn't. Quinn looked up and saw Feanor staring down at him with a curious expression. Quinn recognized the elf as a Grey Warden who had helped free Redcliffe from its curse. They had stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the barricades, fighting off wave after wave of possessed dead.

"Hello Feanor," Quinn had calmly said. Feanor's eyes lit up in recognition, his blade faltered and was withdrawn. In its place, Feanor offered his hand, and Quinn had taken it. There in the road, Feanor told him about the brotherhood of the Black Wardens. He, Zevran and the others broke open the merchant's crates and showed Quinn the drugs he had unwittingly been guarding. They told him what the drugs did to people, and what had happened to a little girl who had somehow gotten her hands on a bottle and drank it, not knowing what it was. They told him how her mother had wailed at the funeral pyre. Quinn looked at the heartless smuggler who had hired him, held in place by two Black Wardens, and the image of Andraste wielding a sword flashed in his mind. Quinn ran the smuggler through without hesitation, and at that moment became a Black Warden. Since that day, Quinn never doubted once that the hand of the Maker had guided him to that road and shown him his purpose.

His entire life was summarized in the words of the Chant, and to him the Black Wardens were the Chant's purpose made flesh. They were the torch that drove back the darkness wherever they went. Most of his fellow Wardens thought Quinn a bit mad for believing what he did, but none would ever dare say so to his face. Not only because they respected him, but because they knew that his faith was the one thing in the world to which he owed more loyalty than the Black Wardens. That was fine by him, his beliefs did not require others to share them. Quinn knew that Feanor himself had no use for the Maker or Andraste, but that didn't matter. In his heart, Quinn knew Feanor was of use to them whether he cared or not.

He finished reciting the canticle and rose to his feet, touching his fingertips to his heart and then lightly to the feet of the statue of Andraste. Quinn lit a candle at the altar and said a few silent prayers for his brothers and sisters in the Wardens, the souls of his departed parents, and Tessa, wherever she was. Then he sat alone in one of the pews in quiet contemplation. It was sundown and there were a few other worshippers and priests going about their duties and devotions. It was Quinn's favorite time of day to visit the Chantry, when the fading light cast brilliant patterns as it gleamed through the ornate stained-glass windows. It was quiet and peaceful, the perfect time and place for reflection on the divinity of the Maker. Quinn preferred to pray alone, a luxury he was often afforded. Even the clergy gave him a wide berth and barely acknowledged him. Faithful or not, Quinn's appearance and demeanor screamed that violence was his profession, and his imposing presence was enough to keep the other faithful at bay.

So Quinn was surprised when another man slid into the pew next to him, a normal looking man of average height and build, dressed in the garb of a common laborer and a few years younger than Quinn himself. The man seemed to be focused on reciting his own devotions, so Quinn paid him little mind after giving him a once over and returned to his own private meditations. They sat there for a few minutes in silence before the man whispered four words just loud enough for Quinn to hear: "Fire in the mountains."

Quinn stiffened and every one of his senses immediately heightened to a level of awareness that measured every detail of his surroundings. His hand instinctively went for the hilt of the short sword hidden under his cloak. The words the man had spoken were a call sign used by the Black Wardens to signal when they had urgent information to pass up the chain of command. Except Quinn knew every Warden, informant, and spy in Denerim, and he was certain he had never seen this man before. Quinn continued to stare straight ahead.

"Who are you?" he mumbled out of the corner of his mouth.

"Fire in the mountains," the man repeated.

Quinn turned his head slightly, his one eye narrowing as he measured the stranger more closely. His head was still bowed and his hands were folded in prayer. His clothes fell about his frame naturally, so if he was armed it was only with a small weapon hidden very carefully. After a moment Quinn looked away, but he kept his hand clutched tightly around the hilt of his sword.

"Ashes from the sky," he replied, the countersign to the code words the man had spoken.

The man gave a barely perceptible nod and a folded piece of parchment appeared as if by magic in his hand. He subtly slid it to Quinn who glanced down at it, wishing for a moment he still had another eye to keep on the strange messenger. Quinn's jaw tightened when he saw the seal on the folded piece of paper: Stylized black feathers forming two white eyes on a field of red. The sigil of the Antivan Crows. Quinn pulled his sword a few inches out of his scabbard and returned his glare to the stranger.

"Who are you?" Quinn asked again, this time with considerably more steel in his voice than before. The man didn't move but smiled slightly as he replied in a whisper:

"It seems Beloved Andraste has delivered a gift to you and your Warden friends," the man said. "The Antivan Crows have decided there will be no more killing for the time being."

"Your ilk doesn't get to decide when the killing stops," Quinn scowled. The only thing keeping his weapon in its sheath was their location. The stranger's eyes drifted momentarily to where Quinn was gripping his sword under his cloak, and then up to Quinn's face. The man actually grinned at him, as if daring Quinn to draw.

"The killing has not stopped, it has only paused," the man said. His voice now dripped with condescension as he abandoned all subtlety. "Nobody crosses the Crows and lives, the time will come for you and yours. But for now it is in our best interest to cease hostilities. You will find it is in your best interest as well."

"I somehow doubt that very much," Quinn replied. The man just shrugged.

"Take that letter back to your brothers," he said. "Read it. Discuss it. I think you will find that in this at least, our interests very much align."

The Crow casually slid out of the pew, bowed slightly toward the altar, and turned to leave. He paused just over Quinn's shoulder, leaned over and whispered into his ear.

"Be patient my friend," he said, "The business between us will be settled soon enough."

The Crow patted Quinn on the shoulder and strutted out of the Chantry. Quinn exhaled between clenched teeth as if he was trying to stifle a scream. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to leap out of the pew and murder the Crow. Had they been anywhere else, anywhere other than the Chantry, he would have done just that. Quinn wasn't stupid, he knew the Crows had sent him this message in the Chantry for that very reason. He had also been in this game long enough to know what that meant: The Crows somehow not only knew his identity, they knew his patterns and some very personal details about him. The possibilities of how they came about that information was something that made him feel instantly and profoundly uneasy. He sat there for several minutes until his heart stopped hammering in his chest and looked down at the piece of paper which was now crumpled in his clenched fist. Quinn considered reading it right there, but he thought better of it and slid the paper inside his cloak. It would be better for Feanor to read it first. And besides, whatever the message contained, Quinn was certain it would evoke emotions from him he would prefer not to feel inside a house of worship.


	5. Plots and Prophesies

**Chapter 5: Plots and Prophesies**

 _A wise man once said something along the lines of: 'Life is comprised of long periods of boredom punctuated by brief moments of utter panic.' If I ever find that wise man, I'm going to slap him so hard his ancestors will feel it. I haven't experienced a long period of boredom in over ten years, just moment after moment of utter panic. I suppose that's my fault though, right? I chose this life after all…I think…and panic comes with the territory. Honestly, if I were bored for more than a day I probably wouldn't know what to do with myself. Maybe go back to playing the lute. I miss the lute._

 _Such as it is, I've come to realize over the years that these horrendous moments of panic are usually preceded by signs and omens of a dark and sinister nature. Sometimes they're so subtle that it takes a razor sharp wit to notice them. Other times they're so glaringly obvious that they may as well be road signs that say 'Death This Way.' Or…you know…cryptically worded messages from your sworn enemies delivered in overtly threatening ways. The smart thing to do on those occasions, when fate throws you an almost offensively obvious warning sign, is to change course and avoid the disaster that is looming right in front of your face. That's what any rational person would do, right? Right?_

 _The alternative is to pull out your daggers and dive into the abyss screaming like a madman. Which you would have to be, because no sane person would ever dive into an abyss, figurative or otherwise._

 _Which is why, between you and me, I think I may have a problem…_

Feanor stood with his hands spread wide on the table staring intently at the two messages laid side by side in front of him, as if glaring at them would help dispel the multitude of questions they raised. The messages themselves were cryptic enough, and the manner in which they had been delivered was vastly unsettling. Zevran and Quinn had returned within minutes of each other. As they recounted their stories, Feanor felt icy tendrils of fear creep into his stomach, it was not a sensation he was used to feeling. That archer could have put his arrow through Zevran's chest, and that messenger could just as easily have laid a trap for Quinn. They knew exactly whom to deliver these messages to, and knew exactly where and when to find them. The Crows had been able to crack the Wardens' security in other cities, but never in Denerim. This was the seat of their entire network, and not a single Crow had ever been able to even enter the city limits without them knowing. Until tonight, when suddenly their enemy knew right where to find two senior members of the hierarchy when they were most vulnerable. To say the sudden change of fortune was worrisome would be a vast understatement.

Feanor let out an exasperated sigh and began pacing with his arms folded across his chest. Zevran, Quinn, Brecca, and Alderas were all gathered around the table with worried expressions. They all knew what this could mean, and not a few uneasy glances drifted toward the cave's entrance, as if they were all expecting a gaggle of armed Crows to come bursting in at any second. Feanor forced himself to stop pacing and looked at the messages again. They both said basically the same thing, their wording almost identical. They announced that the Crows had recently secured a very lucrative contract, and that one of the conditions of this contract was that they cease all hostilities against the Wardens…because the client was extending the contract to them as well. Whoever it was, this client apparently wanted their target eliminated badly enough to employ Thedas' two most well-known assassin guilds, despite the fact that they were engaged in bloody warfare with each other. As long as the contract was open, the client didn't want the two factions expending resources against each other. Hence the enforced truce, which the Crows had apparently already agreed to. Buried within the letters of the twin messages was a relatively simple cypher identifying the time and place for the Wardens to meet with the client. Should they refuse the contract, the truce would be null and void. Between the lines was the implied threat that this mysterious client had access to information about the Wardens that they would pass on to the Crows, or perhaps act on themselves.

The silence in the cavern was stifling. Feanor was grateful when Zevran finally broke it so he didn't have to.

"So…trap?" Zevran asked rhetorically.

"Trap," agreed Quinn.

"Obviously a trap," said Alderas.

"I…uhm…I'm not sure it's a trap," Brecca said sheepishly.

Three pairs of eyes looked at Brecca like he was a naïve idiot, but Feanor's interest was piqued. Brecca was not the ideal knife-man, but mentally he was sharp as a razor. Feanor shot the other three men a look to silence them before they said anything and nodded at Brecca to continue his thought process.

"Well, if they wanted to outright kill us, why go through all this elaborate cloak and dagger nonsense? Obviously they already know how to get to us, so what would be the point in sending us these messages if it were all just a ruse to…what? Get all of us to go to this meeting where they can set the building on fire and kill us all in one fell swoop? Whoever these people are, they're not stupid and they have to know we're not stupid. No way would they expect more than one or two of us to go to this thing, and they could have killed one or two of us tonight if they'd had the mind."

Brecca gave Zev and Quinn an apologetic look, "No offense," he said.

"None taken," Zevran said with a chuckle, Quinn just scowled in response.

"Look," Brecca continued, more confidently now that he hadn't been shouted down. "Obviously there is some shady crap going on here, and we should be worried. But if the Crows or this client or whoever sent these things really had the drop on us and wanted to hit us, they wouldn't have bothered to go through all of this wishy-washy conspiracy crack. They're obviously good enough to at least think they can take us out quick and clean, otherwise we wouldn't be sitting here having this conversation. All these bells and whistles have done is give us a heads up to be even more on guard than usual."

The other four men regarded each other for a moment as they chewed over Brecca's words.

"I think you may be right Brecca," Feanor said thoughtfully.

"I must agree," Zevran nodded. "Any advantage they had over us has now been squandered, and the Crows are certainly not the types to throw away any advantage, real or imagined. For all they know we get these letters, sense a trap, pack up and leave. Then they're back to square one, and I think by now they've tasted enough of our steel to know that square one is not a place they want to be with us."

"So wait, wait, wait," Alderas chimed in, "Let's say for the sake of argument that this isn't a Crow plot to string us up. That means that all the crazy crack in these letters is true. There's some mysterious client out there that wants to kill someone badly enough to hire us and our mortal enemies at the same time, and thinks that they carry enough weight to keep us from killing each other in the process."

"Well apparently they do have the weight," Quinn said, "The Crows already agreed to it. They wouldn't stop this fight for just anyone, I don't care how big the payout is. There's gotta be something else going on here."

"Indeed," agreed Zevran, "The Crows have coin flowing in from all over Thedas. I cannot imagine a single bounty being high enough for them to suspend the vendetta they have sworn against us."

"We could say the same," Feanor added grimly, "But apparently whoever is orchestrating this little masquerade has something more than money to offer. Or something to threaten with."

"Say what you will about them," Alderas said, "But the Crows don't scare for anything."

"They scared for this," Feanor said, touching the two letters. "And whoever scared them seems to be expecting the same from us."

"Well frack em!" Alderas said with his usual misguided exuberance. "We're the Black-damn-Wardens! We're not gonna play along with this…are we?"

Alderas, Quinn and Brecca all looked to Feanor and Zevran expectantly. The two exchanged glances and Zevran nodded reluctantly.

"This is uncharted territory," Feanor sighed, "We're completely blind. We have no idea what this contract might be, who the client is, or what he's holding over the Crows' heads and ours." Feanor paused, gritted his teeth and made the call: "We go to this meeting. We see who's trying to jack us around, and who knows? Maybe it will be worthwhile to play their game."

The other four men nodded in agreement, but clearly none of them were thrilled by the prospect. Neither was Feanor, but he could see no other option. The Black Wardens had their hands full as it was dealing with the Antivan Crows, they could not afford to needlessly make another enemy, especially one that they knew nothing about.

"So, what's the plan?" Quinn asked.

Feanor thought for a moment. "We're going to do that really stupid thing Brecca mentioned," he said with a mischievous grin. "We're all going to this soiree together."

"Wait," Brecca said, his eyes going wide, "All of us?"

"Yes Brecca, all of us," Feanor replied. "You've been training with that crossbow? You can hit a target?"

"Well yeah but…" Brecca stammered.

"Then grab your bolts and strap in," Feanor said in a commanding tone. Brecca swallowed hard and nodded. Feanor tapped his fingers on the table and grinned. "And let's take a peek inside your chest of gadgets," he said. "I have an idea. Whoever these weirdos are, if they try to pull a fast one on us they're gonna get a big hurt. Now we've got about a two day ride to get to the spot in these letters. We'll have to leave tomorrow if we want to get there in time to case the area and…"

"You should not go."

The raspy, female voice was so utterly unexpected that all five men flinched involuntarily. They looked up from the table at the Saarebas slowly approaching them. She was taller than Quinn, all muscle and curves, and she seemed to be gliding rather than walking. Her copper skin gleamed like metal, and the characteristic horns most of her people sported had been sawed off to nubs that were almost covered by a mane of wild white hair that fell to her waist. Her eyes were an impossible shade of deep purple, and they seemed to stare right through all five men simultaneously. Brecca and Alderas stepped back as she reached the table. She looked at each of the men in turn before closing her eyes. Her head swayed back and forth as if she was nodding off.

"What is she doing?" Alderas whispered.

"She's…I don't know, shut up!" Quinn stuttered.

Her eyes suddenly snapped open and locked on Feanor's. Those eyes made him feel strange, and he had to fight the urge to avert his gaze. He could feel energy radiating from this woman like a pulsating heat. It made his skin prickle and his head swim. He had been around many mages in his day, some of them extremely powerful, but none had ever made him feel this way. He quickly glanced at the others and saw that they too seemed to be feeling the effects of her presence. Feanor forced himself to look back into the Saarebas' eyes, wondering in amazement that this was the same woman who had been sitting passively in the corner for the past several weeks.

"You should not go," she repeated.

Out of the corner of his eye Feanor saw Zevran shrug, at a loss for words. Feanor hardened his gaze and his resolve. He adopted the cold, threatening mask he wore so often, the one that made most people shrink back from him. He may as well have been staring at a wall for all the reaction it got out of the qunari woman.

"Why?" he finally asked, keeping his voice carefully emotionless. "What do you know of this?"

The qunari mage extended her hand and touched each of the letters with the tips of her fingers, an expression of concentration and what might have been pain on her face.

"They will ask you to do something you cannot do," she said, "And when you refuse your enemies will multiply, and they will be unlike anything you have faced before."

Feanor stared at her, his expression becoming even harder, more threatening, a cold anger began to rise in his chest. He felt inexplicably insulted by what the Saarebas had just said, and he had to stifle the sudden urge to lash out at her.

"You have no idea what I can do," he said quietly, dangerously, "And even less of what I've faced."

"You have killed many without hesitation," she said simply, "Even those who were unwilling victims of the monsters you had sworn to protect them from. Demons and darkspawn, horrors in the deepest, darkest places of Thedas."

Feanor felt suddenly like he had been punched in the chest. Images flashed through his mind unbidden, all the horrors he had faced during the Blight appeared before his eyes in one awful moment. And with them, other images. Those villagers, the circle mages…Connor…that poor boy…

"You have ice in your veins, Feanor of Denerim," the Saarebas continued, "But you are chained to your remorse. That is why you cannot do what these people will ask of you. And when you refuse them, the power they will bring to bear on you and your brethren will destroy you all."

Feanor felt those words penetrate him like fangs, sinking down into the core of his being. Something inside him snapped. He slammed both of his fists down on the table and snarled like a feral animal. He would have lunged at the qunari if not for the quick, strong hands of Quinn and Zevran that shot out to restrain him. Alderas and Brecca recoiled from shock, and Quinn looked desperately at Zevran as the two wrestled with Feanor. Zevran could only shake his head in bewilderment. Only he had ever seen Feanor lose control like this, and not for many years. Feanor felt deeply, but he had always been a true master of his emotions. To get this reaction, the Saarebas' words must have stirred him more deeply than Zevran could imagine. She stood there calm as a statue as Feanor raged, and not for the first time Zevran wondered if they should have slit her throat and dumped her in the river when they had the chance.

The outburst lasted only a few seconds. Feanor took a few deep breathes and unclenched his hands, backing away from the table a bit to show Quinn and Zevran he was alright. They relaxed their grips but did not release him completely. Feanor looked back across the table at the Saarebas. She had not so much as flinched in the face of a man who would have killed her

"How do you know these things?" Feanor asked, his voice quivering with residual anger. "Who are you? What are you?" The qunari cocked her head to one side and looked at Feanor quizzically for a moment.

"I am Saarebas," she said simply, and then she added sadly, "All of my kind are Saarebas."

The emotion in her voice washed over Feanor like a wave, so intense it completely disarmed him. For a moment he heard a brilliant song humming in the back of his mind. It weakened him, and he had to steady himself against the table. Around him, his four comrades similarly wavered. Zevran clutched a hand to his heart and grimaced in pain. Quinn's arms hung limply at his sides as he shivered and began mumbling a prayer. Alderas went stiff and sneered in anger, then closed his eyes tightly and turned away. Brecca let out a deep sob and wrapped his arms tightly around his own shoulders. Then as suddenly as it had come, the haze in their minds receded. The five friends looked at each other, blinking like men who had just wakened from a shared dream. They had all just seen brief glimpses of their destinies. Feanor looked back up at the Saarebas, his icy façade completely melted, his eyes pleading.

"These people," Feanor said, his voice quavering, "Who are they?"

Again the Saarebas slowly reached across the table and lightly touched one of the letters.

"The Red Hand," she said simply. Then she turned and without another word walked away. The five men stared after her in silence, all of them unsure and uneasy about what had just transpired, all of them knowing they had been touched by power. Feanor shook his head and rubbed his eyes with his palms. He looked down at the letter the Saarebas had just touched. There at the bottom of the page was a small sigil.

A red hand inside a black circle.


	6. The Red Hand

**Chapter 6: The Red Hand**

 _So remember that 'problem' of mine I told you about? Yeah. It manifests itself in the form of various personality ticks, quirks, and eccentricities. One of them is that I can't stand to leave anything unfinished, it sticks in my craw. I can't really help it, it's a survival mechanism. Stuff happens, sometimes according to plan, other times not so much. In this line of work when stuff happens, you need to see it through to the end. Sometimes that means gritting your teeth and taking some pretty hard hits. If you don't, if you're timid or you hesitate or you back off, you'll die. Plain and simple._

 _Of course if you never back off, eventually you'll step into something too big to handle, and it will beat you._

 _I guess that's why you never meet any old assassins._

"What if they search you?" Brecca asked nervously, fidgeting with the string of his crossbow.

"Brecca," Zevran responded casually as he pulled on a long coat over his armor. "We're highly trained assassins walking into a meeting where someone we've never met is going to offer us an insane amount of money to kill someone else we've never met. They expect us to be armed, and it would be insulting to check us."

"You know I'm not talking about the knives and swords," said Brecca.

"Daggers," Feanor corrected him as he clasped up his own overcoat.

"Whatever," Brecca said rolling his eyes, "You know what I mean."

Feanor knew, and he winced slightly as the six delicate clay bulbs sewn into the inside of his coat clinked against his armor. If one of them broke it would make for a very…awkward and potentially life-ending scenario. Feanor forced the unpleasant thought from his mind.

"Don't worry about that," he said, "Just worry about keeping that crossbow pointed right at that front door. Anyone but us comes out, shoot em."

"Anyone but us," Zevran repeated, emphasizing the 'but us.' "I swear to the Maker, Brecca, if you kill me my spirit will come back and haunt you until your dying day.

Feanor chuckled as Brecca grumbled something about knowing what he was doing and settled in behind a fallen tree, resting his crossbow on the trunk and levelling it at the door of the inn. It was an unremarkable, single-story building maybe a dozen yards from where the Wardens were positioned across the road in a small copse of trees. There were hundreds of such roadside inns all over Ferelden. They were rarely crowded, but this one seemed conspicuously devoid of life. There were no wagons or tethered horses out front, and the building itself was in a sorry state of repair. It would have seemed abandoned if not for the glow of light that leaked out from the shuttered windows. Someone was definitely inside.

Alderas materialized from the shadows like a wraith. Dressed in all black to blend in with the night, only his eyes were visible between the hood and cowl that covered his face.

"Perimeter's all clear," Alderas said, "Any sword-arms they have are inside."

"Alright," Feanor nodded, "Everyone stay sharp and frosty. Brecca, keep your eye on that front door, Alderas keep patrolling the perimeter. Give us a good warning if anyone creeps up. Quinn, keep the horses quiet, and if you hear the alarm or things start getting ugly, come running as fast as you can with that druffalo-killer."

Quinn grinned and patted the hilt of the massive great-sword sheathed on his horse's saddle. Alderas vanished between the trees as silently as he had appeared, and Brecca exhaled as he zeroed in on the front door. Feanor glanced at Zevran and nodded, and the two stepped casually from cover and headed toward the door.

"So," Zev asked, "Are we going to play good rogue, bad rogue?"

Feanor grinned. Both he and Zev had very intense personalities that they expressed in very different ways. Zevran oozed charm and was practically impossible to dislike, Feanor on the other hand radiated menace. His cold, blank stare made people immensely uncomfortable. Feanor could disarm just about anyone with a glare as easily as Zevran could disarm anyone with a smile. Engaging with both of them at the same time was usually enough to throw anyone from street toughs to nobility off balance. Their tandem mind game had proven to be extremely effective over the years.

"I imagine it will play out that way," Feanor responded as he opened the door to the inn. The two elves stepped inside and froze.

"…or maybe not," Feanor whispered grimly.

The twelve heavily armed men standing in the room turned as one to glare at Feanor and Zevran. A single glance told Feanor all he needed to know about them: The exquisite make of their arms and armor, the way they stood, the expressions on their faces, all of it told Feanor that these were no mere mercenaries or hired thugs. These men were all stone-cold killers. And there was something about their intensely focused glares that made Feanor uneasy. He could not quite put his finger on it until he noticed their eyes. The natural color of their irises were tinted with red, and seemed to glow faintly and unnaturally in the dim light.

"Ah, the Black Wardens," an Orlesian-accented voice called from the center of the room, "I am so glad you decided to attend. Please, step in out of the cold night air and have a seat."

Feanor slowly closed the door behind him and walked cautiously toward the man seated at the only table in the room. He was middle-aged with tan skin and slicked-back hair that was just beginning to fade from black to grey. He sported a neatly trimmed, oiled beard and wore obviously expensive black and red robes. He was the only man in the room that appeared to be unarmed, and the only one without glowing red eyes. Feanor slowly sat in one of the chairs across from the man, Zevran remained standing just over his shoulder. The man looked at both of them in turn, flashing perfectly straight, pearly-white teeth in an amicable smile.

"I am honored that the commanders of the Black chose to meet with me personally," the man said, glancing at Zevran, "Zevran Arainai," the man said by way of greeting. If Zevran was surprised that the man knew his identity, he did not show it. He kept his expression neutral and nodded politely. The man returned the gesture of greeting and turned to Feanor. "And Feanor…?"

"Just Feanor," Feanor cut him off coldly, folding his hands on the table in front of him. "It's a mononym, like 'Andraste.'"

"Very well," the man chuckled, "Welcome Zevran and 'just' Feanor. I have heard much of your prowess, it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

"I'm sure it is," Zevran said with a hint of his coy charm. "Might I ask, since you know our names, may we have the pleasure of learning yours?"

"I am the Red Hand," the man responded, spreading his arms and bowing his head, as if he expected applause.

 _Of course you are_ , thought Feanor.

"The Red Hand?" Zevran inquired, raising a curious eyebrow. "I imagine that is a title, and not your name."

"No, no," said Feanor, "I've heard of him. Distant relation to the Blue Foot."

The Red Hand actually laughed heartily at that and slapped a knee.

"Oh my," he said, wiping away an imaginary tear, "How delightfully droll."

"Thank the Maker you think so," Zevran said, shooting a cautious glare at Feanor. "Might I say Ser…Hand…you travel with an impressive retinue."

"Ah yes, my guards," the Hand said, gesturing to the crowd of warriors spread around the room. "You must excuse their presence. One cannot be too careful, these are dark times we live in."

"You remember a time in Thedas' history that was not dark?" Feanor asked. The Hand chuckled again and wagged his finger.

"True enough," he said. "You must admit however, that these times are especially vexing. Mages and Templars tearing each other to shreds before the Blight is even a decade gone. Then a hole is ripped in the sky, the Chantry all but destroyed, and now demons fall through the veil and roam the land. As if that were not enough, we must contend with a war between two armies of fanatics. On the one side, the Venatori, led by a madman who believes he can become god. On the other, the Inquisition, led by a different madman who believes he is a prophet sent by god. One could be excused for thinking the world is coming to an end."

"But not you," Feanor said slowly, choosing to ignore the Hand's assessment of the Inquisition as fanatics. He didn't know much about them or the Venatori, but he knew enough to be certain which faction was on the right side of history. "You do not believe the world is ending," Feanor continued, "Or we would not be having this conversation."

"Correct you are my astute friend," the Hand said with a knowing grin. "The world is not ending, but it is changing. A new era is upon us, one I intend to be on the forefront of. And I wish to offer you the opportunity to help me get there."

The Hand leaned forward and adopted a more businesslike tone. Feanor watched him carefully, his eyes occasionally darting to the armed men standing about the room. None of them seemed to have so much as shifted their weight from one foot to the other.

"I am told that the Black Wardens are the best," the Hand began, "And the contract I am opening requires the best to carry it out."

"If you have heard we are the best," Zevran said cautiously, "Why have you hired the Antivan Crows as well?"

"Because I have also been told that they are the best," he said matter-of-factly. "So I decided to hedge my bets, if one wants a job done badly enough one cannot afford to rely solely on a single party, however great they are rumored to be."

Feanor glanced over his shoulder at Zevran who met his gaze and nodded slightly. At least the Hand's logic made sense. It was a little bit comforting to know that they weren't dealing with an eccentric loon who thought of this as a game. Feanor returned his gaze to the Hand and chose his words carefully.

"The issues between the Crows and the Black run deep," he said, "So I'm curious to know what you offered them that made them agree to the unique terms of your contract," Feanor paused, "And what you seem to think is enough to make us agree."

"For payment I offer whatever you want," the Hand said.

"Whatever we want?" Zevran asked skeptically after a long pause.

"Whatever you want," he repeated. "Money, influence, information, they are of no consequence. And I can promise you something far more valuable," the Hand paused for effect. "Reputation. Whoever successfully closes this contract will be able to claim, beyond any doubt, that they are indeed superior. If it is you, your reputation will soar, you will be untouchable. You will watch as your power waxes and that of the Crows wanes. If you succeed in this where they fail, their days will be well and truly numbered. Reputation my friends, is more powerful than steel or magic. Either the Crows will wither and die, or you will."

The Hand's words rolled over in Feanor's mind. He chuckled mirthlessly and shook his head. He knew grandstanding when he saw it.

"Impossible," Feanor said, leaning forward a bit aggressively. "The Crows will not go away if they fail in just this one task, nor will we."

"And even if it were possible," Zevran added, "If you are so powerful that you can offer us anything we want, and I promise that we can imagine quite a bit, why don't you just kill this person yourself?"

"There is a time and a place for all things under the sun," the Hand said cryptically, leaning back casually in his chair. "And at this time, my place is in the shadows. As for the impossible," his gaze settled firmly on Feanor, "You above all else should know that nothing is impossible." There was a certainty in the Hand's voice that brooked no contradiction. Feanor realized that this was a man used to power, whose every word had always become deed.

"Ok," he said, "I choose to believe you, we'll bite. Who is the target?"

The Red Hand produced a small piece of paper from the folds of his robe, placed it face down on the table and slid it to Feanor. He stared at it for a moment before carefully picking it up and turning it over. His heart skipped a beat in his chest. He blinked a few times, not believing what he was reading. The words of the Saarebas echoed in his mind: _They will ask you to do something you cannot do_ …He held the paper up over his shoulder so Zevran could see, and his friend gasped in surprise. Feanor looked at him, and a silent communication passed between the two men. Feanor folded the paper, placed it on the table, and slid it back to the Hand.

"No," Feanor said.

"No?" The Hand asked, as if he did not quite understand what the word meant.

"No," Feanor repeated. "The Black Wardens do not accept this contract. We will leave it to the Crows to benefit from your…largesse."

The Hand's nostrils flared. He cracked his knuckles and slowly placed his palms flat on the table. Feanor was sure he saw one of the man's eyes twitch.

"Why?" the Hand demanded, just barely keeping his voice level.

"Perhaps you were not made clear on the nature of our work," Zevran said. He had abandoned the charming façade, now his face was deadly serious. "We only kill people who deserve death."

"And you think that he does not deserve death?" the Hand asked, his voice rising slightly in pitch.

"No," Feanor said without hesitation. "Not for you, not for anyone. Not for all the coin in Thedas."

The Hand stared at them both through eyes narrowed into slits. Finally he slumped back in his chair and sighed.

"That is…unfortunate," he said almost sadly. "I must admit, I expected men in your line of work to be completely lacking in moral qualms. Your dedication to whatever oaths you have sworn is commendable, lesser men would have abandoned them for much less then what I offer you. I believed that everyone has a price, it seems I was mistaken. You have my respect, Black Wardens."

"So there are no…hard feelings?" Zevran asked suspiciously.

"None whatsoever," the Hand said with the utmost sincerity. Feanor relaxed a bit and felt Zevran do the same at his back.

"Do not misunderstand," the Hand continued, "I cannot possibly let you live."

"What!?" exclaimed Feanor. The Hand just shrugged.

"You have seen my face," he said, "You know who it is I want killed, and I'm afraid I cannot allow the possibility, however slight, of you interfering with what must be done," the Hand sounded genuinely remorseful. "I am truly sorry. You would have made powerful allies."

"We will not interfere!" Zevran pleaded, "That is not how this works! Let us walk out that door and you need never hear from us again, I swear it!"

"And I believe you, Zevran Arainai, truly I do," the Hand said affectionately. Then his voice turned cold, "But in this, I'm afraid you are either with me or against me."

The Hand waved and twelve swords were unsheathed as the guards began advancing purposefully toward the table. Feanor sprang to his feet and pressed his back against Zevran's, both men dropping into defensive stances. They looked about the room frantically, and Feanor knew there was no way they'd make it past so many well trained swords.

"Wait, wait!" Feanor said, his hands extended in supplication, "Just…listen to me for one moment!"

The Hand gestured and his men stopped advancing, but did not lower their swords. Feanor took a few deep breathes and steadied himself.

"Please, just answer me this," Feanor said, "Do you know what lyrium sand is?"

"Yes…" the Hand said, his expression equal parts curious and warry.

"Oh, good," Zevran said, and with a smile and a flourish he opened his long coat, revealing six clay bulbs each about the size of a fist sewn into the sides. The guardsmen looked at each other and their master with what might have been confusion, not sure of how they should react. The Hand himself seemed quizzical as well, but he had become noticeably more rigid in his chair.

"Not a very spectacular thing, lyrium sand," Feanor said as he slowly unclasped his own coat to reveal another six bulbs, "Rare, but actually pretty useless…unless you want to knock down a wall." Feanor plucked one of the balls from his coat and held it up between his thumb and forefinger. "Because when mixed with the right components, a handful can blow a hole through six feet of granite. If you want the biggest bang, you can just drop in a few grains of drakestone." Feanor rolled the clay bulb across the table toward the Hand, who caught it and held it up gingerly.

"There are two compartments inside that little ball," Feanor said with a malicious grin, "One containing lyrium sand, and the other containing shavings of drakestone. Note how thin the clay is. Drop one, fall on one, bump one the wrong way, and boom. One goes off, so do the other eleven. They all break and there'll be nothing left of this inn but a smoking crater." Feanor chuckled wickedly, his cold grin turning into an even colder sneer. "See where I'm going with this, ruffles?"

The Hand stared at the ball Feanor had rolled to him, understanding and a hint of fear dawning in his eyes. He looked past the ball at Feanor's now blank expression.

"You're bluffing," the Hand hissed, "You would kill yourselves!"

"And we would die smiling," Zevran said with a giddy grin, "Knowing that they will be finding pieces of you and your lackeys all the way to Val Royeaux."

"So why don't you just calm the frack down and reconsider the whole letting us walk out of here bit?" Feanor asked.

The Hand's face contorted with rage, his mouth forming words that did not seem to come. Suddenly he calmed, sat back in his chair and gently laid the clay ball down on the table in front of him. He waved a hand.

"Go," he said simply.

The armed men sheathed their swords and carefully stepped back to the walls.

"Good choice, well done," Zevran said.

Feanor and Zev stepped lightly to the door, keeping their backs pressed together and their coats held open as they moved. Just as they reached the exit, the Hand spoke again and the duo paused.

"You are already dead," he said in a monotone voice. "You are now marked, this only delays the inevitable." Feanor stared at the Red Hand, and the two men locked eyes across the room for one, deadly moment.

"Death is the only inevitable," Feanor said simply. "All any of us are really doing is delaying it as long as we can. To wit, you might want to wait awhile before following us. Don't want me to get jittery and start lobbing these little guys over my shoulder, do you?" With that, Feanor winked at the Red Hand, and he and Zev pulled the door shut behind them.

As soon as the door closed, Feanor put his fingers to his lips and whistled shrilly. The two Elves sprinted across the road to the grove of trees. When they got there, Quinn was already in his saddle.

"Take it that didn't go well?" he asked as Feanor and Zevran sprang onto their horses. Alderas materialized from the darkness and climbed onto his own mount, pulling Brecca up behind him.

"Nope," Feanor said, "And I'm pretty sure we just royally ticked off a mage, so let's get scarce before he realizes these things are just filled with pebbles and dirt."

The four horses kicked into a gallop. They rode hard and fast for a long time, putting as much distance between themselves and the inn as possible before they had to slow their horses to a canter. Quinn rode up next to Feanor.

"So, what did they want?" he asked.

Feanor looked at Quinn, just barely making out the features of his face in the dark.

"They wanted us to kill the Inquisitor."


	7. The Price of Refusal

**Chapter 7: The Price of Refusal**

… _Sometimes there's just nothing to say._

The Black Wardens did not break for Denerim, instead they veered to the northwest. They avoided the main roads, keeping to the little-known game trails and hidden paths of the thick Ferelden woodlands. They moved stealthily, constantly doubling back and changing direction to throw off trackers. They paused only long enough for the horses to regain their strength. After three days of hard riding and no sleep, they were finally confident enough they were no longer being pursued to set a proper camp for the night. Five exhausted Wardens collapsed into their bedrolls and drifted immediately to sleep.

Now Feanor was dreaming. It began with a slight humming in the back of his skull, more of a tingling sensation than a sound. Something about it was comforting, and at the same time terrifying. It forced him forward, down a steep and winding path with sheer walls on either side. The farther down the path he went, the louder the humming became. It turned into a song, more beautiful than anything he had ever heard. Feanor stumbled forward, and with each passing step the song became more unearthly, more beautiful, more intoxicating, and with each step he craved it more. Its magnificence was tangible, he could feel it coursing through his veins and filling up his soul.

It was too much. The exquisite pleasure turned to pain, and Feanor writhed in agony as the song built to an impossible crescendo in his mind. He wanted to turn and flee, but there was no going back, the song continued to pull him forward step by grueling step until he found himself at the edge of an abyss, and the song degenerated into a horrible cacophony of screams and snarls. Thousands upon thousands of voices rose up raging with an insatiable hunger. Feanor fell to his knees and his eyes were pulled down against his will to gaze into the abyss, and there he saw them: A monstrous horde that stretched as far as the eye could see. In one awful moment, Feanor felt all their eyes fixate on him, and the entire horde lurched forward like a single gigantic organism.

 _They are coming…_

Feanor sat bolt upright with a scream of panic and practically knocked Brecca head-over-heels. Zevran grabbed Feanor by the shoulders and tried to hold him still as he thrashed about in his bedroll. Quinn helped the startled Brecca to his feet and both watched in alarm as Zevran struggled to calm his friend down.

"Feanor!" Zevran screamed over and over again, but to no avail. Finally Zevran hauled up and slapped Feanor across the face with the back of his hand. "Get ahold of yourself!" Zevran demanded.

The slap seemed to do the trick. Feanor put his fingertips to his lower lip, and they came away with drops of blood on them. Feanor's eyes darted around their campsite, unsure if he was awake or still dreaming.

"What happened?" he asked.

"You were asleep," Brecca said nervously, "Longer than any of us. We tried waking you up, but we couldn't."

"Then about a minute ago you started mumbling, then screaming, then thrashing around like a wolf had ahold of you," Quinn said grimly.

"Are you alright, Feanor?" Zevran asked, resting his hand on Feanor's shoulder. Feanor didn't answer, he got up from his bedroll and walked a few paces with his head tilted back like a hound trying to catch a scent. It was a little bit after dawn and the forest was beginning to come to life. The other three men looked at each other and back to their leader worriedly.

"We have to go," Feanor said, suddenly. He hurried to his kit and strapped on his brace of daggers, leaving his bedroll and rations where they lay. "Take only what you need," he said, struggling to keep the panic in his voice at bay, "We need to ride hard and not stop until we reach Denerim."

"Feanor," Zevran said, walking up and taking his friend by the shoulders, "What is going on? You're acting like a lunatic, there's nothing…"

Feanor grabbed Zevran by the wrist and looked him in the eye with a look Zevran had not seen since… "Darkspawn," Feanor hissed.

Zevran pulled back his hands as if he had touched something hot and stared at Feanor in disbelief. He opened his mouth to protest that darkspawn had not been seen in this area since the Blight, but the look on Feanor's face silenced him. Feanor still carried the Grey Warden taint in his blood, and the blood never lied.

"Where?" asked Zevran, "How many?"

"Many," Feanor said, his voice raspy with fear, "Too many to be a raiding party. And they're close, if we don't leave now they'll be on us in…" Feanor stopped mid-sentence and looked again around the camp. "Where's Alderas?" he asked.

Zevran's eyes went wide. In his own shock he had forgotten the other elf had already left.

"He went hunting," Zevran said in a low voice, "He left just before sunrise, before you…"

Feanor cut him off with a curse and punched the air in frustration. He paced for a moment before crouching down, immediately picking out the footprints leading out of the camp and down into a nearby ravine. Feanor stood and began following the tracks.

"I'm going after him," he said. "If we're not back in ten minutes, ride out of here like hell is on your heels."

"I'm coming with you," Zevran called. He strapped his longsword and his own assortment of daggers around his waist and began to follow Feanor, but the other elf whirled on him and planted a finger firmly in Zevran's chest.

"That was an order, Zevran!" Feanor said coldly, "If Alderas and I don't come back in ten minutes you and the others…"

"Shut up!" Zevran said, brushing Feanor's hand aside. "You know that's not how it works with me." Without another word Zevran pushed past Feanor and began following Aleras' tracks into the ravine. Feanor stared after Zev incredulously. _He's right,_ Feanor thought. _That's not how it works with him._ Feanor shook his head and turned back to Quinn and Brecca, who both looked as though they were about to follow as well.

"No!" Feanor said with steel in his voice, halting the other two men in their tracks. "Someone needs to make it back to Denerim, tell the network about what happened. Send warning to the other cells. The Black must survive, that's the most important thing here. Ten minutes!" Feanor sprinted after Zev, leaving Quinn and Brecca alone in the camp. The two men looked at each other, and Quinn started to pray.

Alderas exhaled slowly as he drew his bowstring back to his ear, grinning as his sights settled on the small doe grazing a few yards ahead of him. _We'll eat good today,_ he thought with a smile. Suddenly somewhere off to the left above the crest of the ravine wall, a twig snapped and the doe immediately bolted into the foliage. Alderas stood completely still, keeping his bow drawn tight. The woods around him had gone eerily silent, and his hunter's senses were all on edge. Something was very wrong. Slowly he turned to the left, twisting at his midsection, keeping his feet planted and his bow taut. His eyes followed the sloping rise of the ravine up to its crest.

The genlock leapt into the ravine practically right on top of Alderas. Acting on pure instinct, he arced his bow up and let the arrow fly. Head, shaft, and fletching all tore through the creature's neck and exited at the base of its skull. The lifeless body crashed into Alderas, knocking the wind out of him and sending him sprawling to the forest floor. He managed to keep hold of his bow and scrambled to his feet as he drew another arrow, then he froze in horror as his gaze fell upon thing he had just killed. Its scarred and twisted face was frozen in a permanent expression of rage, its black eyes stared lifelessly back at Alderas. He had never seen a darkspawn before, but he had heard enough tales from Zevran, Quinn and Feanor to know one when he saw one. Alderas felt his stomach churn: _They never travel alone_ , he thought. Just then another of the creatures, this time a larger hurlock, came careening into the ravine at a run. Alderas released his arrow and it struck the hurlcok in the chest, but the beast's heavy armor absorbed most of the impact and it kept lurching forward. Alderas loosed again, this time striking it between the eyes, and it slumped lifelessly to the ground. Alderas nocked another arrow, his eyes darting back and forth in a panic. All around him now the air was filled with savage grunts coming from every direction. _They always travel in war bands_. Another darkspawn crested the ravine. Then another, and another, and another…Alderas picked one at random and shot his arrow, turned and sprinted away without waiting to see if it struck home.

Alderas ran swiftly as a deer, behind him the darkspawn burrowed over everything in their path like a raging storm, and they were gaining on him. Their feral screams grew louder in his ears, and he was sure he felt hot breath on the nape of his neck. Just as Alderas was certain he was about to feel clawed fingers dig into his shoulder, he heard Zevran shout:

"Duck!"

Alderas dropped into a forward roll as a dagger flew over his head and took the genlock closest behind him right off its feet. When Alderas popped back up, Feanor and Zevran were standing on either side of him in fighting stances with blades drawn. Alderas grinned as he drew another arrow.

"Glad to see you fellows," he panted.

The appearance of the other two elves and all three standing their ground seemed to startle the darkspawn and they skidded to a halt. For several tense, drawn out seconds, the three assassins stared down a dozen darkspawn a few feet away. _This isn't right,_ thought Feanor.

"Fall back," Feanor ordered. He turned and saw more darkspawn descending into the ravine behind them from the ledge to the left. They had been flanked, cut off from their path back to the camp. Feanor jerked his head to the right, the only direction available to them. "Go," he shouted, "Move!" The elves quickly bounded up the embankment and sprinted into the woods, and the darkspawn immediately gave chase.

The trio of Wardens engaged in a running battle with the darkspawn for what felt like hours but was only a few minutes. _This isn't right_ , Feanor thought again. These darkspawn were not behaving like the ones he and Zev had faced during the Blight. Those creatures had always charged straight ahead, heedless of numbers or tactics, their one-track minds focused only on the kill. These creatures were thinking. They held together in a relatively tight line, keeping to cover as they ran almost parallel to Feanor and his companions. Only when their quarry tried to veer off to the left or the right did they attack in small groups of five or six. Feanor and Zevran fought them off, fighting in tandem, anticipating each other's moves as their blades whirled and parried in a dizzying display. It was more like a choreographed dance than a melee, and would have been beautiful if not for the carnage it wrought. Alderas stayed a few yards ahead, picking off any darkspawn that broke from cover with precision, but he was already running low on his finite supply of arrows.

The sporadic attacks kept the Wardens running in a straight line, and each one took a small toll on Zevran and Feanor. They were each bleeding from several minor wounds and were breathing heavily. Feanor could feel his legs beginning to burn, and his eyes were stinging from the sweat and blood pouring into them. Throughout it all, the persistent thought remained: _This isn't right._ Too late to counter it, he realized what was happening: the darkspawn were herding them.

Feanor parried a sword slash with a dagger in one hand and opened the neck of his attacker with the dagger in his other. The hurlock fell backwards gurgling, uselessly clutching at the gash in its neck. Feanor let the momentum of his slash carry him into a crouching twirl, and where his head had been a moment before, Zevran's sword cut a vicious slash across the chest of a genlock. It fell backwards with a scream as another of its comrades about to flank Zevran dropped with one of Alderas' arrows in its chest. The three elves continued their mad dash through the trees, then they saw it: A wall. Twenty feet high and stretching for dozens of yards in either direction, the ruined remains of some forgotten fortress or temple. They stopped running and as one turned their backs to the wall and began slowly backing up. They were cornered.

The line of darkspawn looped in a half circle around the Wardens. They held their positions, one or two of them occasionally lunging forward and gnashing their teeth and roaring before falling back into line. _Like dogs on a leash, waiting for their master to let them loose,_ Alderas thought. An image of his mother being torn to shreds by hounds flashed through his mind. Rage bubbled inside him, restoring some of his sapped strength.

"So," Alderas said with an eerie calm, "How does this end?"

"They kill us, rape us, and eat us," Zevran said darkly, "Hopefully in that order."

"Make them earn it," Feanor rasped. His jaw was set, his knuckles white around the hilts of his daggers. He had to chuckle at the irony: To have lived through Ostagar and fought against the Blight only to be discharged from the Grey Wardens, and now he was going to die fighting darkspawn. Feanor could appreciate a good joke, even if it was made at the expense of his own life. "Make. Them. Earn it."

Back at camp, Quinn stared forlornly into the forest, holding the reigns of the horses in one hand and his sheathed great sword in the other. Brecca crouched on the balls of his feet, his hands folded in front of his face, swaying back and forth.

"They're getting farther away," Brecca mumbled. Quinn nodded grimly in response. The sounds of the fighting that had erupted only a few minutes earlier were indeed getting farther away. Quinn didn't know what to do. Every nerve in his body, every instinct was telling him to charge into the forest, to go to the aid of his brothers. But Feanor had given him an order: _Someone needs to get back to Denerim, warn the others, the Black must survive_. Quinn knew this to be true, but…

That was his family out there.

The frustration was almost too much to bear. Quinn closed his one eye and exhaled slowly, trying to force himself into a state of calm. _Andraste, please guide me,_ he thought, _Maker please send me a sign. I don't know what to do…_

"Frack this!" Brecca said suddenly. Quinn watched in surprise as the dwarf picked up his crossbow and slung a quiver of bolts over his back.

"What are you doing?" Quinn asked.

"What does it look like? I'm going to save our friends," Brecca replied. "Are you coming?" Quinn just stared at Brecca in shock for a moment,

"But Feanor said…"

"I know what the frack Feanor said," Brecca fumed, "And if we live through this he can dock me two weeks' pay. Now are you coming or are you going to stand there praying all day?"

Brecca took off at a sprint through the trees, leaving Quinn staring after him, mouth agape. He stood there alone for a moment before breaking into a robust laugh. He looked to the sky with a smile and winked, then he drew his sword and threw the scabbard to the side as he ran after Brecca.

The darkspawn didn't attack. They just stood there growling and raging, blocking the Wardens' escape route but not rushing in to finish them off. The three elves looked from the line back to each other in confusion.

"What the hell are they waiting for?" Alderas asked through clenched teeth.

Neither Feanor nor Zevran answered. Alderas followed their gazes toward the center of the darkspawn line, where the creatures were parting for another one of their kind. It looked like a normal hurlock, but its armor was not the hideous conglomeration of metal and bone of the common rank and file. It was actually ornate in a grotesque sort of way, black as coal and inlaid with strange golden runes across the chest. The creature carried a bladed abomination of a mage's staff, and its dark eyes gleamed with evil intelligence through the red, hand-shaped war paint on its face. Then something happened that Feanor didn't think was possible: It spoke.

"This one has the honor of performing the will of the Red Hand."

Breath caught in Feanor's chest at the sound of the deep, otherworldly voice coming from the thing's mouth.

"It's talking," Zevran mumbled, "Feanor, why is that thing talking?"

Feanor had no answer, he could only stare in disbelief as the blighted creature continued:

"You are alive still only to hear this one's words from the mouth of the Red Hand. Before you die, know this: Everything you have built, everything you love, everything you know in this world shall burn. Your brethren will die screaming. The path of the Maker shall be littered with the corpses of his enemies. Yours shall be the first."

"The Maker…?" Zevran mumbled.

"Tell your Red Hand to go plough himself!" Alderas screamed in defiance

"If you want our lives" Feanor said, his voice dripping with venom, "Come and take them."

"This one needs to come for nothing," it replied. It raised its staff and wreathes of flame began to snake down the shaft. Feanor instinctively got his hands up in front of his face just in time.

The ball of fire took him squarely in the chest. Feanor's drakeskin armor was resistant to anything short of Dragon flame itself, but not against the raw, concussive force of magical energy. The blast sent Alderas and Zevran staggering as Feanor flew backwards. He slammed into the unyielding stone wall and felt his ribs crack on impact as all the air was forced out of his body. Stars exploded behind his eyes as he slumped blindly to the ground.

His vision came back to him in swirling waves that made him gag. Somewhere to his right, Alderas was staggering to his feet like a drunk man. A few yards in front of him was Zevran, still clutching a dagger in one hand, swaying like he was on the deck of a ship. Zevran's back was to the darkspawn, so he did not see when the line charged.

Time slowed down. Feanor tried to get to his feet, but his legs gave out and he fell forward onto his stomach. Pain lanced through his ribs into his spine, and he became aware of a sticky wetness dripping down the back of his neck. Feanor looked past Zevran to the hurlock charging at him, pulling its sword-arm back. Feanor tried to get to his feet again, but now he could not even feel his legs. He tried to cry out, but his mouth couldn't form the words.

"Z-z…Ze…" he croaked. The hurlock was ten paces away.

Zevran finally stopped swaying, he blinked and shook his head, his deep brown eyes focusing on Feanor's bright green ones.

"Ze…Zev…Zevran!" Five paces.

Zevran's eyes widened in realization. He pivoted gracefully on his heel and brought his dagger up to guard just as the hurlock crashed into him. Zevran gasped in surprise as the jagged blade ripped through his tunic, his armor, and into his ribs.

For a moment the two of them just stood there, locked in a deadly embrace. Zevran glanced down at the scimitar jutting from his torso with a look of bemusement. Then with a scream of rage and pain, he jammed his dagger through the bottom of the darkspawn's jaw into its neck. The thing stiffened and fell backward, pulling its blade from Zevran's body with a sickeningly wet tearing sound. Zevran clasped his hands to the wound and blood spurted out from between his fingers. He slumped down to his knees and then collapsed onto his back, his entire body shaking with violent spasms.

An animalistic cry tore from Feanor's throat. He dug his fingers into the earth and pulled with every ounce of strength left in him toward his beloved friend's body. He saw another darkspawn walking almost casually toward Zevran, twirling a double bladed axe in its hands. Feanor pulled harder, trying to get between it and Zevran. He was too late. The darkspawn lifted its axe over its head with a vicious howl.

The cry of triumph turned into one of pain as the darkspawn's back arched violently. It shuddered and slumped to the side, a crossbow bolt buried between its shoulder blades. As it fell, Feanor saw Brecca disappear behind a tree as he reloaded his crossbow. Then the foliage erupted as Quinn burst forth, swinging his massive great sword in wide swooping arcs, cutting down any darkspawn in his path like wheat before the scythe. He reached Zevran and stood astride him with his sword held high, roaring like a mother bear defending its wounded cub.

Quinn stood over Zevran's prone form and took stock of the situation: It was hopeless. Zevran was bleeding to death and Feanor was clinging precariously to consciousness. Quinn turned his head just in time to see Alderas take an arrow to the chest and fall to the ground. Brecca was still running and firing his crossbow, but he only had a dozen bolts, and over a score of darkspawn surrounded them.

 _This is it,_ he thought, _this is how we die._ A dark thought crossed Quinn's mind, of putting Zev and Feanor out of their miseries to spare them the darkspawn, then fleeing to Denerim. Maybe he could get to safety and then…the thought vanished as quickly as it had come. A feeling of calmness and certainty overcame Quinn, the same feeling he had felt in the prison mines so many years ago. He had felt it at Redcliffe, at Denerim, and when Feanor asked him to take the Black. The Maker was with them, they would survive this. He didn't know how, but he knew they would. He looked at the force of darkspawn surging in front of him and smiled. Then he looked over his shoulder at Feanor lying on his stomach a few feet away, trying desperately to pull himself forward.

"The Maker loves you, Feanor," Quinn shouted, "And so do I!"

With that, Quinn charged headlong into the thick of the darkspawn war band, the Chant of Light echoing triumphantly from his lips.

Feanor's entire world had shrunken down to the few feet between him and Zevran. He pulled himself forward, a few agonizing inches at a time, until finally he was at his brother's side. Blood was flowing freely from the wound in Zevran's chest, and his breath came in ragged gasps. Feanor pressed down on the wound with both hands to staunch the flow of blood, but it kept coming out in jets.

"No…no…no…" Feanor mumbled, trying to will the blood to stop pouring out of his friend. Feanor felt a slick, trembling hand reach up and grab him behind the neck, and his head was pulled down a few inches away from Zevran's. Zev's eyes were wide and unfocused, tears streamed down his blood-smeared cheeks

"Feanor…Feanor…?" Zevran quaked. Feanor cradled Zevran's head in his arms, his eyes stopped darting and settled on Feanor's face.

"I'm here Zev, I'm here," Feanor choked out between sobs.

"I'm so sorry Feanor…" Zevran gasped as new tears welled up in his eyes. His trembling hands grasped feebly at Feanor's arms. "Don't let them take me," he said, "Don't let them send me away. I won't…I can't…how will I know where to go without you?"

Feanor opened his mouth, but the reassurances died in his throat. All he could do was hold Zevran close as both their bodies racked with pain and sobs. Then Feanor heard a rasping chuckle over his shoulder. He turned and saw the darkspawn with the red hand war paint standing over them, its face contorted in a look of pure disgust, its staff levelled inches from Feanor's face. Feanor laid his body over Zevran's and pulled a dagger from its sheath on his thigh. He held it up weakly, the blade trembling in his hand.

"You will not touch him," Feanor said through gritted teeth, "I swear by my own cursed blood you will not touch him."

"You have been weighed and measured," the darkspawn snarled, "This one has found you wanting."

Feanor dropped his dagger, pressed his cheek against Zevran's golden hair and closed his eyes tightly as the staff flamed to life.

"I love you Zev," he whispered.

For the second time Feanor was blinded by a flash. This time when his vision returned it was blurry around the edges, and the world had taken on a colorless, surreal quality. _Am I dead?_ He wondered. _Is this the Fade?_

Time slowed down again. The darkspawn that had been standing over them was lying on its back a few feet away, its chest a smoking ruin. The air above Feanor was hissing, and when he looked up he saw that it was filled with arrows. The savage howls of the darkspawn turned into feral screams of fear. The ground beneath Feanor shook and the sound of thunder filled his ears as dozens of mounted warriors streamed past him and fell upon the remaining darkspawn with fury. It was only when they turned to flight that it dawned on him: He was alive, this was real, but when he looked down at Zevran, his heart sank.

Zevran's hands had fallen limply to his sides, and his eyes stared lifelessly up at the sky. Feanor shook his friend, whispered his name, and cupped his face gently in his hand, but there was no sign of life he could discern.

"No…" Feanor whispered. "No Zevran, no! Don't do this! Zev come back, I need you to come back, Zev!"

Feanor felt the life draining out of him as he stared at Zevran's frozen expression. All the strength seeped from his limbs and blackness began to creep in on the edges of his vision. Feanor slumped forward and rolled off of Zevran's body onto his back. As he lay on the forest floor he found Zevran's hand and took it weakly in his own. Then the darkness took him.

When his eyes fluttered open again, Feanor found himself staring up at the peaked roof of a canvas tent. He was lying on a cot, his head propped up by pillows. He tried to sit up and felt a searing bolt of pain shoot through his head for his efforts. He fell back with a grunt, pressed his palms to his temples and shut his eyes tightly. The sound of clinking chain mail caught his attention, and he looked up to see a human soldier staring down at him. Before Feanor could open his mouth, the man turned briskly on his heel and exited the tent.

Feanor looked at his surroundings and found that there was not much there. Aside from the cot his was laying on, a wooden chest, a stool, and a small wooden table with a flickering lantern were the only things in the tent. He raised one hand gingerly to his forehead and discovered it wrapped in thick bandages. He looked under his covers and saw that his ribs were also bandaged, and both of his legs were in wooden splints. He tried to sit up again, to get a better look at his injuries, and once again the pain overwhelmed him and he collapsed back into the pillows. Feanor wasn't sure how long he laid there alone, the pain that pulsed through his body made the passage of time hazy. Slowly the events of the day crept back into his memory…

Zevran…

The tent flap opened again and hulking qunari stepped inside. Even in his weakened state, Feanor couldn't help but gape at the giant's imposing physical presence. He stood at least seven feet tall, with a set of horns that curled around his ears and were plated with bronze. He was bare to the waist save for a leather harness across his massive chest that clasped firmly onto his right shoulder. His bluish, metallic-tinted skin was crisscrossed with elaborate vitaar designs in red and white that climbed up his torso and arms to his face, framing deep blue eyes that stared intensely down at Feanor. The qunari's expression was unreadable, and for a moment the two just stared at each other. Feanor opened his mouth to speak, but only a croaking sound came out. The qunari nodded and walked to the side of Feanor's cot. He removed a canteen from his belt, opened it, and handed it to Feanor. The water was lukewarm and had a strangely herbal aftertaste, but it felt like heaven going down Feanor's parched throat. He drank greedily until he had to stop and gasp for breath. He realized that he had practically emptied the qunari's canteen and offered it back, but the qunari shook his head and gestured for Feanor to continue drinking. He nodded his thanks and finished off the rest of the water. As he set the canteen down on the ground beside his cot, the qunari pulled up the stool and sat near Feanor's head. Feanor was about to ask his name, but the qunari preempted the question.

"I am Kaaras Adaar, Captain of the Valo Kas Free Company," he said in a stoic, matter-of-fact tone typical of those raised under the Qun. "You are Feanor of Denerim. You and your beresaad are in our camp, four days ride south of Vigils Keep in the arling of Amaranthine. The darkspawn war band that attacked you has been destroyed. None survived. We piled their bodies and burned them."

Kaaras spoke as though he was describing an afternoon trip to the market. Feanor just nodded dumbly and asked the only question on his mind:

"Zevran?"

"The blonde, painted one. He nearly bled to death, but he's alive," Kaaras said, "Our company mage got to him just in time. Had to use up all of her mana to save him. She needs a few hours more rest, then she can heal your wounds, which are extensive. The other two survivors of your beresaad were also wounded, but not seriously. Our healer has attended to them. You and Zevran will need several days to heal properly, there is only so much magic can do with wounds such as yours, but you will survive."

Relief swelled over Feanor, he put his hands to his eyes and let out something that was partially a sob and partially a laugh. Then something Kaaras had said stuck out in his mind.

"Two…the other two survivors?" Feanor asked. Kaaras looked at the ground almost awkwardly before answering.

"The human is dead," he said simply, "Your friend's say his name was Quinn. I am sorry."

"Quinn?" Feanor asked, as if guessing the answer to a trick question. Kaaras just nodded. "Quinn is dead?" he asked again.

"Yes," Kaaras responded, and shifted a bit in the stool, looking as uncomfortable as Feanor had ever seen a qunari look.

Feanor settled back onto the pillows and folded his hands on his chest. He felt blank, the words Kaaras had spoken just would not sink in. Silence stretched between them for several minutes.

"We have his body" Kaaras began slowly, "The others said Quinn was a very devout Andrastian. We lack a priest, but we do have a man who knows the funerary rites. If you believe Quinn would approve, we may lay him to rest in our camp."

"Yes," Feanor answered quietly, "Quinn would approve."

"I will make the arrangements," Kaaras said, and abruptly got up to leave.

"Kaaras," Feanor said, the qunari stopped near the flap of the tent and looked over his shoulder. Feanor swallowed the hard lump in his throat. "Did you see Quinn fall?" he asked.

"From a distance, aye," he answered.

"Was it a good death?"

"Yes," Kaaras said without hesitation, "It was a good death."

Feanor nodded and allowed himself to sink all the way into the pillows.

"Thank you, Kaaras," he said. The Captain looked surprised at the comment, but merely nodded and exited the tent.

The next day they gathered around Quinn's funeral pyre. The four Wardens stood at the front, each of them sporting several bandages. Zevran looked especially pale and had to be supported between Alderas and Feanor, who himself could walk only with effort. None of them said anything to each other, there was nothing they could say. The chaplain performed the funerary rites in front of the pyre. When he asked Quinn's friends if they had anything to say about the departed, none of them could find the right words. Feanor said something half-hearted about him being a good man, a good friend, and a good brother who sacrificed himself so that they could live. It sounded hollow to him, it didn't do Quinn justice.

As the pyre was lit, Kaaras and the rest of his company who had attended out of respect filtered away quietly to go about their duties. The Black Wardens watched the flames in silence for a long time. Eventually Zevran ran out of strength, and as Alderas helped him walk back to his tent, his hand drifted down and gave Feanor's a squeeze. Feanor returned it, but did not take his eyes from the flames. Brecca remained with him awhile longer before he wiped away his tears and rested a hand on Feanor's shoulder for a moment and walked away.

Feanor remained standing alone until the flames burned themselves out and only ashes remained. The numbness in his heart melted and gave way to a grief that defied all words. Feanor buried his face in his hands and wept as the smoke from the pyre curled into the sky and was carried away on the wind.

 _The Maker loves you, Feanor, and so do I._


End file.
